concealer // a.i.

3 // wounded.

ashton knew his place when it came to farrah.

he knew that she didn't want him to say anything to her friends, or anyone for that matter. it wasn't his secret to tell, anyway.

"why...why don't you just wear long sleeved clothing?" ashton asked, and farrah shoved the stick of concealer back into her pocket.

"it's summer," farrah concluded. "long sleeves would draw way too much attention to myself."

but you're popular, ashton thought to himself. attention is something you receive everyday.

and why did she do it? as far as ashton was concerned, farrah was pretty, popular, surrounded by people. happy. what reasons did she have to turn to self harm?

"you know, there are better ways to take out the stress," ashton suggested, and farrah scowled at him. "you don't understand. you wouldn't know what it feels like."

ashton flinched at her words, and gazed down to his wrists, where he could see his own scars, faded, yet noticeable. farrah followed his sight and saw the scars, her lips parting slightly.

"i'm sorry," farrah apologised. "i just go through a lot of shit and i tend to take it out on people."

"do you know why i hated every second of it?" ashton spoke, surprising himself. farrah's eyebrows furrowed together, and she tilted her head.

"the things people said to me when they found out." ashton continued, feeling anger seep into him. "they said things like i was an angel trying to return home, romanticised my situation. what was wrong with them? i was hurting, i wanted to die. and they were turning it into a beautiful thing."

farrah nodded slowly, in understanding. "i...get it."

"self-harm isn't beautiful. it's sad."